Modern Mr Rochester
by B. Vose
Summary: A modern retelling of Jane Eyre with Mr. Rochester as an attractive British actor (Cumberbatch, anyone?) and Jane as a P.A. The opening scenes lead up to their first meeting, it's got a certain smuttiness, but what doesn't? Also elements of a very dominant Mr. Rochester to unfold over the next several chapters.
1. Chapter 1

I should have been listening to Mrs. Fairfax in the interview, but I was too nervous to focus. I'd never been on a movie set before, and even though it was a tiny, historical film, it was a real live set. Through the administrative office window, I could see a black and white horse tearing at the grass in the main garden square of the estate. Actors milled around in 1800s British officer costumes, all red and white, the younger of the two picked his nose because he didn't see anyone looking. I'm so excited I feel myself breathe through my shirt and each ridge of my bra presses against me like a prison. I have waited since I was six years old to work on a movie. Finally I'm here on set.

Mrs. Fairfax is watching me squirm expectantly. I can't mess this up. Oh God, what did Mrs. Fairfax say?

I nod enthusiastically, and re-adjust my scratchy skirt. I desperately need this job. It's the only thing separating me from the vast, horrid nothing that is Noble, Kansas. If you'd been there, you'd know.

Mrs. Fairfax seems satisfied.

"So, you've worked with children before, then?" she asks.

"Yes, I did a great deal of babysitting as a teenager. Now that I'm in college, I've done some volunteering for Big Brothers, Big Sisters, but I spend most of my time studying. I'm sorry, I thought this was a production assistant job?"

"It is. There are quite a few children on the set as well though, actors for some of the different scenes, and frankly quite a few of the cast and crew can have very," she paused as though searching for the right word, "_childlike_, tendencies."

"Ah."

"Relax," Mrs. Fairfax says with a slight smile. Her eyes seem tired, and for an instant I wish I could make her day easier, maybe get her a martini.

"As a junior production assistant, you're not going to have to interact with the more _childish_ actors." She smiles to herself as she looks out the window, in time to see the second soldier in red and white wiping snot on his costume pants. She sighs and turns her gaze back to me.

"You'll begin tomorrow at 7 a.m. bring your social security card and alternate form of ID. We run a tight schedule, and you'll probably be working with the child actors to start. You'll want to mind your manners; working with the British cast requires finesse." I nodded again; hopefully I don't seem like one of those plastic bobble-head dolls.

Must exude air of competence. Cannot return to Kansas in disgrace.

"Alright, then. Off you go," said Mrs. Fairfax.

"Thank you for this opportunity," I stammered as I grabbed my purse and limped from the room. I want so badly to untuck my blouse and rip off the skirt. I scratch madly the second her back is turned, and then follow her out of the estate.

The next morning, groggy and confused, I stumbled out of bed and threw on the cleanest set of clothes I could find, a pale pink t-shirt and loose slacks. When I saw myself in the dorm room mirror, I seemed younger than 21, and my long, dark hair had curled softly. I'm pale-skinned with deep brown eyes, not particularly exciting to look at, but not unpopular either. I'm smaller and a touch shorter than most girls. It was only 5:30 at the time I was ready, I must have set it too early, not that it mattered, I couldn't sleep anyway.

Mrs. Fairfax was happy I came in so early to the set, and sent me down to the prop manager a few buildings away to fetch some things for the day's shooting. The morning was unusually cool and crisp for September, and the estate was surrounded by smaller gardens, unkempt patches of woodland, and the odd acre planted with kale, rhubarb or vegetables, as well as newly-tilled sections lying fallow for the coming winter. The grounds were massive, and assistants aren't allowed use of the golf-carts to get from one part of the location to another. After about a half-hour I found the prop area, and the prop master handed me a bag of wooden toys for the children with a brisk, "Here you go. Hope you last longer than the last one."

I headed back toward the main building of the estate where Mrs. Fairfax and the other staff were headquartered. I did not feel the cold at first, although the morning frost was still glittering along the trees and my breath came in clouds in the still air. In my rush to get to work, I had left my jacket in my apartment. Now, I took advantage of the privacy of the open fields to rub my arms together and shiver. It's been a pleasant enough morning with the sky a melting series of indigos, fresh-yellows, and the steel shade of gray, one color melted into the next. I can smell leaves burning in the distance, the gentle smoke reminds me of Noble. I must have strayed from the main walkway, as I saw more trees and less gardens as I walked toward where I hoped the main estate was_._

_I cannot believe I've gotten lost on my first day, and now Mrs. Fairfax is going to fire me in public. Everyone I've ever known will laugh at me, and people I don't know will see it on Snapchat and laugh at me, and damn it's junior high all over again,_ I thought.

I stopped for a moment to look up between the ancient oaks and calm myself. I was there still, back pressed against the rough bark, when I heard the sexiest voice I have ever heard, with a heavy, upper-class English accent mutter, "Damned."

Only, it sounded as though he whispered it directly in my ear, the word angry and deep, like I displeased him. I felt it along every millimeter of my spine, a thrill both electric and pulse-pounding. Something so very wrong about that rich voice cussing. I felt as though I had heard that voice all my life.

A ruckus moved through the trees, birds shrieked and flew off, and the ground trembled. The metallic clatter of horse hooves pounded the ground, the sound skittering through the trees as though it came from all directions at once. I pressed my back harder into the bark of the tree and waited for the horse. I imagined being trampled, my body crushed by it, and scrambled to push harder into the tree. My heart raced and I felt the beat of life shove through me.

The horse was a stallion, sleek-coated and all black as it streaked past the oak that hid me. I only noticed it for a moment, because leaning close over the saddle of that magnificent beast was a rider in a rough gray cloak which clung to him not quite hiding the muscular form of his shoulders and arms. The two passed in an instant, one impressive animal atop another, and I flushed realizing I had not looked at his face.

There was just enough time to catch my breath as they passed, and I took one step from the tree. I heard a sliding sound as the horse hit a frosted patch of earth. Its front right leg bent wrong and the full gallop forced horse and rider to twist in a half-turn. The horse slipped again. It snorted, sides heaving.

Everything happened at once. The rider looked up from his mount the second it began to fall back. A thin, gray scarf covered the lower half of his face and the hood of his cloak covered most of his hair except for a few jet black strands which curled around his forehead. His skin was pale as cream, and he had the fine upturned nose and high-cheekbones of an aristocrat and thick dark brown eyebrows, but that wasn't what stopped my heart in my throat.

It was his eyes, a light, glacial blue, the color of open sky. He looked up into mine, and didn't break his gaze even as the horse went down with him.

"What the hell?" he said. I had just enough time to know it was his voice I heard curse in the forest. He hit the ground and the horse hit with him.

I ran down to the rider, dropping the bag of prop toys along the way. He struggled free of the saddle and stirrups and pushed his way free of the horse. The rider didn't seem injured, and I felt foolish racing down the hill to help.

"Are you hurt?" I asked.

He stumbled, but he didn't seem to be injured too bad. He swore in that same sinful voice, and it was like silk brushing against my ears. I blushed and tried not to listen.

"Can I help you?"

"Yes," he hissed. "Come here and help me up." I trembled inside at the imperative edge of his tone. I'm not so used to taking orders. I took hold of his right hand to pull him up, but he flinched and cursed again.

"That one may be broken," he said through gritted teeth. "Try the left."

He got up on his knees, and then leaned his weight on my shoulder until he stood. His cloak felt as coarse against my arm as it had seemed billowed out behind him. He smelled of sweat and sandalwood, with a hint of pepper and the soft scent of lime soap. Underneath that smell was the heated, delectable scent of his skin. I tried not to breathe him in, and found any number of places along the pathway for my eyes to follow. His arm and back were hot against mine. I was not ready to face those eyes again.

I set him on the edge of a wide network of tree roots, and lowered him to the ground.

"If your arm is broken, there is a medic tent back with the film crew. I can fetch someone."

The rider bent his head and took care as he squeezed his right arm with his left. He flinched as he checked the spot above his elbow.

"It's only a sprain," he said, his eyes found mine as he tried to use his right arm to push off the ground and stand. He moaned. Instinctively I reached toward him, but I was taken aback by the anger in his beautiful eyes. He was a wounded animal, and I was not to corner him.

Instead I took notice of the long gray cloak he wore, his height which was taller than I had first thought when he was bent over the neck of the horse. I was afraid of him for a moment, with only the woods around us. He was strong, his shoulders and arms rippled with muscle, his stomach and hips lean. The same fierce heat I felt from his voice crept into me as I gazed on him. I wanted him, even hurt as he was, I could feel my body reach for him. He was the most handsome man I had ever seen, those artic eyes and dark hair. I am both drawn to and repulsed by beautiful people. I am not one of them, but how I long to be.

If he had been kind to me, if he hadn't been staring into my soul as the horse went down, I think I would have left him there in the forest. His anger served as a sort of buffer for me. If anything I was determined that he would get help whether he wanted it or not. The horse had righted itself, and I checked it as best I could before determining it was bruised up, but not badly injured. I grabbed the reigns and bent to pull up the rider.

"C'mon. We'll go to the medic tent. You can lean on me as we go."

"What are you doing out here anyway?" he grumbled as he stood, his voice rough and agitated. He turned and stared at me again. The heat of his shoulder and arm felt good against mine, too good, and I tried not to smell him.

"I'm on the crew for the movie being filmed at the estate. I got lost getting these toys for the set. I'm not that far off the grounds."

"You're on the crew down there?" He pointed with his good arm, the one around my shoulder. The estate grounds seem to spread out before us in dots of garden, field, and hedge.

"Yes."

"Do you know which actors are in the film?" the rider asked. He still had not removed his scarf or hood. His face was close to mine as he gestured, and if he was not layered in scarf, we might have been lip to lip. More of his hair fell from the hood, and I wanted to brush it back. I know it would feel cold from the air and slick as silk. He said something, didn't he? I cleared my throat.

"It's my first day, and a lot of the cast is British anyway. They're only in America for the shoot. So, I haven't seen any of them."

"So you're?" His eyes reviewed my pale pink shirt and loose slacks with certain hauteur. I had been found wanting. He puzzled for a moment.

"I'm a production assistant," I said.

"Right," he said and his eyes travelled over me again. I found myself wishing I had dressed better today, maybe a ball gown would satisfy Mr. high-class? My traitorous nipples did not share my offense, and presented themselves in chilled points to his gaze. The rider saw them, and quickly looked away. It would appear chivalry is only dead in America. Or I am have grossly overestimated the appeal of my breasts. Either way, I had the wild desire to pull up my shirt and make him see.

"You're not afraid to be alone in the wood with me?" he whispered, a slight menace to his cultured voice, his lips quirked in a playful smirk under the scarf. He was so close I could feel his breath against my neck as he said it. I shivered, but it had nothing to do with the cold. He leaned move heavily on me, and his chest brushed tauntingly against me as we limped together. I gasped and coughed to recover.

"No." I said softly. It was a lie, but I couldn't tell him everything about him was too intense for me. He scared the most primitive part of me, the part which felt like a gazelle making chit chat with a panther.

"Stop. I think I can make it from here on the horse," he said. I pulled the reigns over, and he used my shoulder to boost himself up with his good arm. He let out another moan as he settled into the saddle when his elbow was wrenched again.

"Now," he said and loosened his scarf so that his mouth was visible. The rider had the most beautiful mouth I have ever seen. His lips were plump and well-shaped with a sort of smirk to them. He'd been biting his lower lip to hide the pain of getting into the saddle. I would kill to be that lower lip.

"My whip, please?" he said in that same honeyed, British voice. He smiled as he said it, and arched an arrogant brow. I stared at him stupidly for a moment, and then searched until I found it, a long, black English style riding crop. I held it up to him. For a brief, wild moment I imagined kissing the end before I handed it to him. The smell of the leather, the texture of the whip end against my lips, the pleasure in his pale blue eyes as he watched me kiss it, knew that I was entirely his.

I handed it back to him with the handle out. I blushed again at my thoughts and could not look him in the eye.

"It's cruel," I said, digging my sneaker into the frosted earth. "To the horses."

"Don't worry," he said, and I felt his eyes tracing my neck. He tilted his head so he had a better view of my lips, "I never use it on the horses."


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

I was restless on the walk back to the main building, my thoughts drifted back to the mysterious rider. I didn't know his name, didn't know anything about him. I replayed the image of his hands tight around the reigns, his long, elegant fingers curled around the strap, the swirl of his grey cloak around his broad shoulders, the pale skin and sharp cheekbones. Above all I remember the perfect blue of his eyes.

I reached the main building in no time, and set the toys on Mrs. Fairfax's desk. Only she wasn't at her desk, or out near the cameras and directors in their canvas seats. I searched the nearest areas for over a half hour and found her as she scrambled out of the medic tent.

"Jane! Where have you been? There's been an emergency. Our star is injured, and we have got to get him fixed up, or shooting will be pushed back again."

Mrs. Fairfax grabbed my hand and directed me toward the main house.

"Go get an ice pack, Jane. They're in the cabinet by my desk."

"Oh my God, what happened?"

Mrs. Fairfax shook her head and the stain was evident in her voice.

"_Apparently_, he fell off his horse."

The rest of the day passed in a blur. Apparently, my rider, Ben Rochester was the star of our movie. The Ben Rochester, as in Ben Rochester, Oscar nominee. As in Ben Rochester, box office gold. He's only doing the film as a favor for another acting friend.

The crew brought supplies in and out of the medic tent well into the evening. Mrs. Fairfax had worked with the director to re-organize today's shots, so that they could film scenes that didn't involve the rider, and the day wouldn't be a total loss. When I wasn't inventing excuses to hang around the med tent in the hopes of checking on him, I threw myself into playing games with the set children.

One of the girls, Adele, was my favorite. She was about 8, with golden curls and dimples. She beat me at the card game, "war" several times. She giggled sweetly when she won, a bit of her British accent peaked through, and I dreaded giving her up for the day. I knew she'd be a champ when it was time for her folks to show up, but no one ever came to claim her. I asked Mrs. Fairfax about Adele, but she muttered so I couldn't hear what she said, and then told me I should keep an eye on Adele until morning when all the madness on the set was over. Mrs. Fairfax shoved a key to one of the estate rooms in my hand, and a handful of cash for dinner.

I pitied Adele, no one cared enough to come claim her. Her parents were probably still in the U.K. I could sympathize. Much of my childhood was spent shuffled between two equally disinterested parents. I grabbed Adele in a bear hug, and kissed her on top of her adorable head.

"You, young lady, are getting the finest Chinese takeout known to man!"

"Wonderful! I've never had American Chinese."

"You're in for a treat." After a really pleasant dinner, I took Adele back to the main building and got out some pajamas Mrs. Fairfax had left in an overnight bag for her.

"You're about the cutest kid I've ever met, you do know that?" I asked her after she was in her jammies with flying cows on them, and a light blue that reminded me of nothing so much as certain pair of eyes I had seen earlier in the day. I shook the thoughts away.

"Nooo!" Adele said, with a bit of a spoiled lilt to her voice. She was getting tired and grouchy.

"OK, OK. Come sleep with me, but I've got to get up early, so I hope you're a deep sleeper." I pulled back the covers of the big Edwardian bed. She bounced in like a puppy and before my head was against the pillow, I heard her quiet snore. I was exhausted too.

_Stupid, stupid, Jane,_ I thought. "Afraid to be alone in the woods with me, " hmmf, I snorted. Ben Fucking Rochester! There are hundreds of girls that would kill me and walk over my still-warm body to be alone in the woods with Ben Fucking Rochester.

The last thing I saw as I closed my eyes was the sky-country blue of his eyes, looking down on me.

My phone woke me up at 6 a.m. Adele still dozed under my arm. I crept away from her and when I had escaped the bed, I tucked the blankets back in around her. She yawned and burrowed deeper into the covers. I smoothed yesterday's clothes and shivered. I didn't know how drafty these old houses can be. I shook again and my teeth chattered. I took a look around the room for sharp objects, made sure the third story windows were locked. Adele might wake up before I got back, and I want her to be safe until I do.

I toddled down the hardwood stairs and tried not to slip on my socks. I stretched at the bottom of the stairwell. There was an overnight bag down of the other staff must have gone to my dorm room to pick up my clothes, because it had my warmer shirts in it. I pulled on a lavender sweatshirt, and changed into a pair of jeans in the bathroom, brushed my teeth and spit in the sink, rinsed it away.

When I came out of the bathroom, Mrs. Fairfax was moving around papers at her desk.

"Hey, we've got to be quiet, Adele's still asleep upstairs," I whispered making the 'silent' gesture with my finger against my lips.

"Thanks for having someone get my clothes." She nodded.

"Where are Adele's parents? They must be worried sick," I said. Mrs. Fairfax shook her head.

"There's still in the U.K.," she whispered. "I'm so glad you could take care of her last night."

"No problem, she's an angel," I said. I smiled as I remembered her cute yawn.

"I can take care of her for the rest of the morning. We're having a special staff meeting out in the courtyard to discuss shooting repercussions from yesterday's accident. We'll all have to pitch in more now that our star is not at the top of his game. You'll take your cue from Alice." I nodded and rummaged through the bag for some comfy shoes. I got them on, and went out to the courtyard with the other staff.

Alice had us all line up in the courtyard, and I was embarrassed of my mussed hair. It was obvious I had slept here. Oh God, I hope none of the staff thinks I'm screwing one of the directors. I cringe. Alice said something important. "New opportunities, rising through the ranks, job of a lifetime." What is she going on about?

Then I heard his voice.

"I prefer to be by myself on set, and I particularly dislike having an assistant. However, the director has _informed_ me that in order to keep from exacerbating my sprain, I need someone to be my hand until we finish shooting here in the U.S. for liability reasons. This is not going to be a _pleasant_ job," he said with a cruel twist to "pleasant" as if he meant to say "run for your life."

I shuddered when he said it. It took me several seconds to still the tremble of my hands. He walked behind us as he spoke, I could hear him behind us. He moved down the line until he reached the last staff member on the far left of where I was standing. Now he faced us.

He wore black tailored slacks that flattered his lean hips and an indigo dress shirt with silver cufflinks that managed to be at once loose and fitted. His shoulders and chest rippled with muscle. His abs twisted in the shirt as he walked. His right arm was in a plain white sling that crossed his shoulder, but the injury did nothing to slow the elegant, predatory grace of his walk.

I don't know what I was thinking yesterday, he isn't handsome.

The rage just beneath the aristocratic delicacy of his deep, sensuous voice, the flash of his eyes, blue as rain, blue as his bloodline. The privileged otherworldly timbre of that voice, from private school, money, and everything I've never had, made me feel both thrilled and insignificant. His high-cheekbones are flushed, a sweet smudge of pink stark against his flawless cream colored skin, his black soft curled hair around him in a halo. He looks younger than he does in the movies and taller. His lips are full and shapely. Unbidden I remember the sight of him biting his lower lip as he lowered himself into the saddle.

I was wrong before, so very wrong. He wasn't handsome. He is gorgeous.

He is a terrible, angry god, and I made him that way. My heart flutters into every part of me, and I'm more scared than when I hid from the horse. I pretend to be fascinated by the ground. Don't recognize me. Don't recognize me. Please I'll do anything. Just don't recognize me.

He continued to inspect the line of assistants as he walked toward me. He kept up his inspection until he was very close by, and he reminded me of a drill sergeant surveying his troops. I could smell him again, cedar and lime.

"It will be grueling work, and involves spending a great deal of time with me. You will be available to me 24 hours a day as I see fit, no job too small, too humiliating, or unpleasant." He gazed into the downcast eyes of the girl next to me, and then focused the full force of his gaze on me.

"You!" I felt rather than heard him growl. He turned, "Alice, this is the girl who spooked my horse!"

I froze. His voice chilled my blood, but I loved it too. It was thrilling. I've always been good. I've always done what I was supposed to. But that voice, that deep, devilish voice made me long to be naughty, made me desperate to be the kind of girl that deserved a spanking. Without wanting to, I imagined being bent over his lap, my skirt hiked over my back his hand raised over my backside. I whimpered, bit my lip, and failed to meet his eyes again.

He turned and marched back to Alice. They bickered in lowered voices, and he pointed angrily at me. Several minutes passed. There is no way I'm not fired, absolutely canned right here on the spot. I'm going to need to update my resume, and start searching online for job postings. I wonder if they'll let me say goodbye to Adele. I liked her so much. I brace myself. It's unprofessional to cry, no matter how much you may want to. So, no matter what you do. Don't. You. Dare. Cry.

My eyes are tearing up, but I look up at the sky until they stop. I can see him and Alice continuing to argue. He probably wants me beaten as well as fired. Alice's face is scrunched up. I can see out of the corner of my eye, she is not happy.

They've come to an arrangement, whatever was said. Ben stalks back over to me. I still can't look him in the eye, but I don't have to, he towers over me by a foot anyway.

He leans in until his chest is inches from my shoulder. He pauses and his lips are against my ear. I blush, and brace for the worst.

"You're mine now," he whispers, brushing my earlobe with his lips as he speaks. I swear I can feel his lips everywhere when he does it, and a surge of lust mixes with terror in my brain.

"Mine, to do with as I _wish_," he says. He raised his head for a moment; his gaze focuses on the set behind us. I try to remember to breathe, to process the words he said, but the throb between my legs is too intense. He leans closer into me, breath in my ear again.

"And I _wish_ to make you suffer for spraining my arm," he hisses. He pulled back some so he wasn't quite so intensely close.

"You're going to be my right arm now," he whispered. He reached out with his left arm and stroked my right arm. His touch was languorous like a lover's. He leaned in again, so close he brushed against my chest.

"A man needs his right arm," he whispered. "For all sorts of things."

He turned and stormed out of the production area. My knees buckled as he slipped out of sight, but I caught myself before I fell. The girl next to me patted my back. She hadn't heard what he'd said, because he'd been practically inside my ear when he said it, so she assumed he'd been lecturing me about his horse. Her expression said, "It will get better, we've all had that boss before." I cringed. At least she didn't know what he'd really said to me.

Alice walked over. She frowned as though she were being paid to do it.

"Apparently, you spooked Ben's horse. He felt it only fitting that you help him out a bit until he recovers," Alice said. She did not seem happy to be saying it.

"I'll check in with Mrs. Fairfax and let her know you've been reassigned."

The rest of the afternoon passed in a blur. I didn't have much to do for Ben during the day when he was filming, but I would have extra hours in the evening as I'd be sleeping in a small servant's quarters in the main estate in the room next to his larger, master suite. I tried to tell Ms. Farifax that I would have to go to class eventually, but no one seemed interested.

Instead, I walked back from the set to where the child actors were playing while they awaited their scenes. Adele wore the most beautiful blue dress the color of a robin's egg, layered delicately in ruffles. She smiled up at me.

"Jane! I was hoping you'd come," she said in her adorable accent. I grabbed Adele in my arms and swooped her in a circle. She was light and warm and like holding a smile.

"I'm happy to see you, too Adele! But I might not be around as much as I was yesterday. I've been reassigned."

"Oh, why, Jane? I so liked spending time with you and having American Chinese. I can talk to someone if you like, about getting you to stay and play with us actors," Adele said, bowing gracefully into a mock-curtsy.

I thought of Mr. Rochester and the way he had lectured Alice, my boss, as though she were a child. I don't think Adele can get me out of that mess. I force a smile.

"Don't worry, little love," I cooed. "It's a great job with a lot of opportunity for . . ." I trailed off as I remembered him trailing his good hand up my arm, "lots of things." Adele smiled.

"If you do a good job, you'll get a present. I always get a beautiful new dress at the wrap party, if I did a good job on the set," she said.

"Maybe I will," I said, absent-mindedly petting her curls, "but I doubt it."

I left for the main set, where Mr. Rochester was filming a few scenes with a tall blond American man. Mrs. Fairfax had informed me that I needed to stay within about 500 feet of Ben at all times, so I was back past the cameraman and slightly up the hill from where they were shooting in the courtyard in front of the main house. I was close enough that Ben could wave me in with his good arm, but so far he had acted as though I didn't exist. He hadn't said a word to me since this morning, and promptly fetched anything he might need himself, even if it pained him.

Ben and the blond man were supposed to be brothers according to what little of the day's script I had seen, but the blond man kept mucking up his lines. Alice said his name was Nick Pack, but then none of these actors used their birth names anymore. His real name might have been Tom Dwellington or Perceival Snit for all I know.

The director yelled cut again after Nick couldn't remember his line for the third time. Everyone scrambled back to their original places for the beginning of the scene. Mr. Rochester ran his hands through his hair and turned his head to hide his grimace. I could practically hear him think, _amateurs_.

Nick looked up at the hill I was standing on, and for an instant we made eye contact. He held my gaze for longer than I expected, his eyes friendly and brown. He looked back at the ground he was supposed to be standing on. A few of the crew not on camera or sound duty, turned their heads to see what had caught the lead actor's attention on the hill, but they seemed puzzled when I waved weakly around my clipboard. I don't like to be the center of that kind of attention. I let my gaze drift down the hill as the crew prepped for the scene to begin for maybe the fourth time.

I felt hot and prickly all of a sudden, as my eyes wandered over the cast before settling on Ben. He was glaring openly at me. I braced myself for another of our "discussions," but he blanked his face and turned back to the scene. Mr. Rochester was nothing if not professional.

Filming went on for much longer than any of us would have liked, thanks only partially to Nick, who was having a very off day. It was dark out. The crew was putting away gear where they could stash it, and the actors who stayed in the main house wings had gone to change their clothes. Mrs. Fairfax was showing me my new accommodations in the house.

"Mr. Rochester's room is on the fourth floor of the house. As our little production's only real star, he had the entire floor to himself. Of course, now you will be in the room next to his," Mrs. Fairfax sighed. "Do you remember what I said when you interviewed?"

I racked my brain trying to remember something other than my uncomfortable bra and one of the extras in British uniform picking his nose.

"Childlike tendencies," I said.

"Exactly! Well, Jane, I'm afraid you've managed to get shackled to the most _intense_ of all the actors on this production."

I nodded. So "intense" was code for "disaster of the year," good to know. She led me up the long winding staircase until we were on the fourth floor. Most of the rooms were empty like she said. I admired the large antique windows with their long rows of crisscrossed bars. They let the stars shine in the rooms, taking some small edge off of the empty feel of the floor. The hall we walked in was well-lit with older, twenties lamps.

"This part of the building has been partially updated. It's too modern for filming, so it's a natural place for our star to say," she added, smiling.

I still needed to talk to her about going back to school, but I was tired from the long day, and I knew she would only ignore me anyway. So I smiled, politely.

"Beats the dorms," I said. We had arrived at the end of the hallway where there were three rooms lit. A smaller room on the left, which I assumed was mine, and a large room right next to it which must be Mr. Rochester's. Across the hall was a living room, or I guess in these older houses, you'd call it a parlor.

"Here you are," Mrs. Fairfax said cheerily. Then less enthusiastically, "Good luck." She turned and walked back down the hallway.

I meant to go to the smaller room I would be staying in. I really did, but I found myself stepping into Mr. Rochester's room. It was the size of four of the rooms in my dorm, and near the back of the room between two of those large windows, was an even larger bed. One of the older four-poster types with lovely chestnut wood and the lushest crimson-velvet comforter I had ever seen. The furniture was all period stuff, expansive and polished and wooden. I felt myself drawn toward the bed, _his_ bed. I trailed my fingers along the crisp, white sheets under the comforter. Oh how it smelled of him!

Less the expensive, sophisticated smell of sandalwood and fresh limes, and more the sweet, delectable scent of clean, naked man, and I loved it, well, parts of me did. I felt the spark rustle low in my belly. Blood rushed to my sex. For the third time today, Mr. Rochester had me throbbing. Then I saw it. The riding crop from yesterday lay on the unused side of the bed. I bit the inside of my cheek and tried not moan.

"You won't find what you're looking for," he growled behind me, his voice more anger than silk. I had been too caught up in the smell of the bed to hear him come in.

"I don't bring anything personal to these shoots. You won't be able to sell anything about me to the tabloids. Even if you could find anything, you signed your life away when you started on the set," he said.

"Mrs. Fairfax brought us up tea. Apparently, she wishes to chaperone us for a bit."

Finally, I found my voice.

"I'm not snooping. I'm just dazed from the long shift is all," I said and shook my head. "I should have paid more attention, my mistake, sir."

He obviously didn't believe me, and turned and headed into the parlor room. Mrs. Fairfax was already sitting in there with tea for the three of us. I sat next to her, and with some difficulty with his arm which was back in the sling immediately after filming, Mr. Rochester sat by me.

"I'm sure you've had a very long day on the set. You're such a hero for working with your injured arm like that. We appreciate everything you've done for this production," she began. He arched an eyebrow and gestured with his injured arm.

"Madam, I should like some tea," he said, his tone curt.

I bet he gets sick of people kissing his ass all day, I thought. I bet it's exhausting to be famous. Mrs. Fairfax handed me his tea. I got up and brought it to him, careful of the delicate china cup. I didn't know how to hand it to him, because he only had the one hand available, and he wore a bitter smirk as I tried to hand him the cup and saucer before setting the saucer on the table, and handing him the tea cup with the handle out. Our fingers brushed again. The spark I was trying to suffocate in my belly leapt to a flame. I sat back down. He sipped his tea, his lips plump and lingering around the delicate edge of the cup.

Oh God, I thought. Don't Look at Him. Don't Think about Sex. Don't Think About Those Lips on Your Clit or You're Going to Die of Embarrassment Right Here.

"Who recommended for you to come work on this film?" He said, his tone intentionally casual, as his eyes found mine over the edge of the teacup.

"I applied with the other film school students. Mrs. Fairfax was nice enough to offer me the job," I said. I took care to choose my words. There is always a chance he will have me fired, just decide he's done toying with me and end it. Mrs. Fairfax chimed in.

"It's only Jane's first day, and she has great potential. She gets on naturally with the child actors. I think she will be a real asset to the film, and . . ." Mr. Rochester cut her off.

"I'll judge for myself, thank you. She began by felling my horse," he said. "I've looked you up, Jane. I found the usual things about you online. Your facebook profile, some university news articles where you're the secretary in some foreign film club, but then I found something, interesting." He sighed as he said "interesting" as though he was surprised to be saying it. My heart thudded painfully in my chest. Had I drank too much at a party and someone photographed me? Did all my angry ex's get together and form the world's most dreadful blog? A girl can't Google herself all the time, or she'll go crazy.

"What did you find?" I asked.

"Your Instagram."

He set his teacup back in its saucer on the table and made a show of how difficult it was for him to fish his phone from his pocket with one arm. It's a high-tech model, slim and black with a black leather case. A coat of arms had been stamped into the leather, the outline of a knight's helmet and a symmetrical ribboned design, like a tribal tattoo only English. Probably family coat of arms. Figures.

"Open it," he said, his smile was mock-innocent. "Excuse me, I am used to saying, 'Do this and it is done.'" I shiver, involuntarily. I should not like being bossed. I should argue, protest, but some dark corner of me thrills at his tone, longs to be commanded.

"Cold?" He asks. I manage to shake my head, no. I pull up the first picture I ever took on his phone.

It's a panoramic shot high up in the mountains. It is fall in the photo and the leaves are burnt oranges and sunny yellows and deep, sports car reds. It's lovely up there on the mountainside in the morning, and I remember the moment I took the photo holding my breath so the warm vapor wouldn't cloud my shot. And above the trees, the reason I had slogged five miles up early in the morning, was the sky. Well, it was the color of the sky, a steel-blue like looking up through the heart of a glacier. Cold, serene, and unnerving. I looked up from the phone into that same blue of his eyes.

"Surely a professor helped you set up this shot," he said.

"No, I did it."

"Hmmm. Where did you get the idea?" His voice was low. I wanted to lie. I wanted to say anything but the truth. I stammered it out anyway.

"I, I wanted to catch the blue," I said, not meeting his eyes pointing only at the sky in the photo. He made a yes sound, half-way between confirming something and enjoying it.

"Are there more?"

I scrolled through the pictures and found a short series from the summer I spent in India after high school. They were photos of monks and the monastery cut into the white stone of a mountainside. They didn't allow women to set in the monk's quarters of the temple, so I had taken shots of the surrounding areas. They were peaceful photos, a strange juxtaposition of the bright oranges and reds of the temple with the stillness of the monks in lotus position and the even deeper stillness of the white mountain and carpet of dark green trees. I handed him the phone. He studied the photos for a moment, scrolling with his thumb, before he fixed his gaze on me.

"Were you happy when you took these photos?"

"I was," I said, but that wasn't the whole truth. There is a deficiency in my pictures, I've noticed it before. Beautiful mountainscapes, a long pier at the beach, the clock tower in my home town, the monastery, they all have one thing in common: almost no people in the shots, certainly no portraits or images of myself with friends or family. There's loneliness to them.

He eyed me then, as though he had decided something.

"It's time to get ready for bed. Mrs. Fairfax, if you'll see yourself out," he said.

She seemed relieved to go, and hurried with the tea tray down the hall. Traitor. She should take me with her. I stood and nervously started toward my room. I know actors are moody, but Mr. Rochester defined the word. I was halfway across the hall when he said,"Not so fast, Jane. You're my right hand, remember?"

I froze. Was he asking what I thought he was asking? My head filled with images of Mr. Rochester naked, of my hands on his length, rubbing and twisting him as he moaned his eyes fluttering. Was this some new game? Mr. Rochester had followed close behind me.

"You'll need to undress me," he whispered.

"What?"

He led me by the small of my back with his good arm into his bedroom. The lamp was on low and cast a candle-like glow on the scene. The rich suggestive red of the cover and the smell, heavy and masculine, were nearly too much. For the first time, I understood why all those Victorian women were always fainting. I turned to flee, but he was at my back. I nearly bumped his arm again. He smirked again, but not bitterly like earlier. It was more like someone laughing at their own joke. When he spoke, the words were slow and suggestive.

"Come on, Jane. Undress me."

I met the challenge of his eyes, even if I had to tilt my head back and gaze up about a foot. I stared into that blue as my hands found the top button at the collar of his indigo shirt. I was so close, he could have kissed me with ease, but he didn't. He stood perfectly still. He watched detached as I undid button after button, the opening revealing the smooth cream of his skin, a color which reminded me of marzipan or good white chocolate or anything delicious, really. I licked my lips. He finally ended the stare, his eyes following my tongue. I moved behind him to finish removing the shirt around the awkward angle of the sling.

"Trousers," he growled.

My stomach did a world-class flip as any blood that may have helped run my brain rushed like lightning to throb between my legs. I looked in his eyes again as I grabbed his belt and jerked him forward. I had to help, but I didn't have to be gentle.

I unfastened it and pulled him close again as I ran it through the belt loops and onto the floor with the shirt. I curled my index and middle finger under the fasten and pulled the top button free. His body tensed and he finally broke eye contact when I unzipped his black pants. I knelt to the floor to pull each leg out. He stood in only his boxer-briefs which were the same indigo as his shirt.

Through some sheer madness of will I managed not to look at him, there, where I most wanted to look. Even so, out of the corner of my eye I could see he was not a small man. He was large even for a man of over six feet tall, or he liked being undressed more than he let on. I reached for the top of the boxer briefs, cherishing the feeling of his skin as I grasped them. This was it. Naked Mr. Rochester in 5 . . . 4 . . . 3. . .

"I can get that. Thank you, Jane," he said. I pulled my hand back. I missed the feel of him on my fingertips immediately. I couldn't tell if he was toying with me, if this had all been some game of chicken, or if he was playing with me now instead. He obviously expected me to leave. He gave me a frigid mock-bow.

"Goodnight, _sir_," I said, doing the best I could to make "sir" a curse word.

I did not sleep well.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

Early the next morning I cornered Mrs. Fairfax downstairs in the main kitchen.

"I would say _childlike tendencies_ may be the actual understatement of the year. He's the moodiest man I have ever met, and I'm a _Film_ Major!"

Mrs. Fairfax shook her head as she directed the caterers this way and that. She made a face that said, "We can't talk that way about the show's star."

"If you're having trouble with your _room_, maybe we can discuss it," she said. OK, so we can talk about Mr. Rochester in front of the staff, but only if he's my room. Fine, I can be discrete.

"My room seems very temperamental. One moment it will be hot, the next completely frozen. Like the _thermostat's_ broken, like maybe the _thermostat_ should _seek professional help_," I said. She stifled a giggle with her hand.

"Maybe, I'm so used to your room, I don't notice it anymore. Maybe if your room is a bit, hot and cold, you should make allowances."

"Why?"

"Because it's in your room's nature, and we can't help our natures. Your room has painful thoughts that torment it." Some of the staffers putting out breakfast trays looked askance at that. They know we're not talking about a room, but they don't know who we're talking about.

"Like what?"

"Family troubles. His sister has been in and out of rehab, but he keeps it out of the press. His parents struggled to keep him in the best schools, so money was always tight. Decisions were made, secrets kept. He fell out with his family. He is not a forgiving man, he broke with his family, and now for many years he has lead an unsettled kind of life.

"Now because he's famous, your room is more alone than ever. You've seen the photos, empty smiles at fashionable parties. Everyone wants to sell him, pieces of him, and his history. Or they love the characters he plays, but not the man. The real person who gets so nervous he forgets his lines. That beautiful face didn't come cheaply either, all the workouts, never eating anything good."

"Yeah, no pasta would make me a moody lunatic too," I regretted the sarcasm of my tone just long enough to remember being dismissed last night.

Mrs. Fairfax smiled again into her sleeve as she oversaw the breakfast trays. A long silver tray covered in strawberries and almond croissants passed between us to the dining room. She didn't say anything else, and I didn't press her.

Apparently, Mr. Rochester felt a bit better because over the next few days, he dressed and undressed himself in the complex period costume he needed for the day's scenes entirely without my help. He also called the Dean of Film at my college. They were bosom buddies during the old Oxford days. Somehow Rochester convinced his old school chum that I was invaluable on the set, practically making the movie, and my coursework was suspended until the Spring semester when I'll be making it all up.

Because of how very invaluable I am here on the set, doing absolutely, not a damn thing. Well, that's not entirely true. I'm watching Mr. Rochester all day, every day. I'd be mad, if it didn't make my life so much easier. It would be rough at the beginning of next semester, but there is no beating what it will do for my resume. I may get to be an executive assistant producer this time next year.

And though I was close to him all the time day and night, it was as though I was a million miles away. Indispensable, my ass.

He didn't so much as look me in the eye. He passed me haughtily and coldly, or he would smile and bow like we were strangers. Now that I knew the reasons for his shifting moods, they didn't bother me quite so much, especially with his clothes firmly on. So the days turned into weeks, until the American portion of the film neared its end.

I slipped away from Ben whenever I could to play with Adele and help her with her lines. She made me feel like a favorite Aunt, and I liked the feeling. I've never had much family. Nick had taken an interest in me as well; he was all right, actually. He never had much to say, but he was pretty saying it.

His face always so open and warm, like the door of a really nice house. More than anything, he was a break from the frosty exterior of Mr. Rochester.

Today was the last day the child actors would be working. Adele had done wonderfully; she would finally get her present. I had enjoyed seeing her so much these past weeks, and she had become my confidant, listening to hour after hour of complaints about Mr. Rochester. For some twisted reason, she always took up for him and after speaking with her I found myself less immune to his coldness, so his purposeful disregard was even sharper for me, when I imagined he might instead be sweet.

Adele wanted me to come with her to get her present before she flew back to the U.K. this weekend. She was dressed up in satiny greens and flouncing ruffles. She often seemed more like the world's loveliest doll than a girl. Adele smiled, all ruffles and curls. She pulled my hand up through the house floor by floor. I was beginning to wonder what her present was as I followed. She giggled and pulled me harder, until we were both laughing as we raced up the stairs. Still laughing like school girls, we tumbled into the parlor. I actually fell on the floor . . . right in front of him.

Mr. Rochester stood still as stone in the parlor. This time his suit was crisp, pressed charcoal pants and jacket, with a white collared shirt underneath. The collar was open, and his smooth skin peeked through like a secret. In his hands was a large red box the same shade as his covers wrapped in a wide shiny green ribbon. His blue eyes wide, mouth open in real shock, probably the only genuine emotion I had seen on his face since that morning he made me his assistant. He recovered quickly.

"Adele, you didn't tell me your friend was a grown-up," he said.

"Is that present for me!" Adele shouted gleefully, grabbing him by the wrists and spinning the box towards her. Mr. Rochester, opened his mouth as if to say something, closed it, and opened it again. There was something so _English_ about the whole thing, like it's the 1800s and we're having tea unchaperoned and how _dare_ we. It was adorable. It melted some of the ice I had felt for him these past few weeks.

"Yes, it's your present. Now amuse yourself with disemboweling it," he said, his voice deep and rather sarcastic. Adele ignored his jaded remark and took the box to the corner happily. She untied the bow and opened the lid of the box before letting out a sigh of joy. In-between the layers of silvery tissue paper lay a truly fantastic dress, light blue silk. It was some designer label for children.

"It's beautiful!" she exclaimed. "But, where is Jane's present?"

Mr. Rochester eyed me darkly, "Are you expecting a present, Jane? I imagine you're fond of them."

"No, Mr. Rochester, I'm not expecting a present."

"Well, I'm afraid this doll for Adele's little friend won't do."

I smiled at him. He felt of the small pockets in his suit dramatically for a moment. Then he sighed searching the room before opening a drawer and pulling out a much smaller silver box with ornate swirls and glitter snowflakes on it. It was tied by a very suggestive crimson bow.

"I suppose I shall give you your wrap present early, then," he said, his eyes meeting mine in an ever expanding sea of blue. I didn't know what to think. He'd left every room I walked into for the last few weeks. He refused to even look me in the eye if we bumped into each other in the hallway. I was beginning to think he hated me.

"Wrap present," I muttered numbly as he handed me the gift. His fingers curled over mine around the box before sliding away.

"I have it on good authority that women still like presents. Don't they?"

Mr. Rochester nodded towards Adele, and there was something bitter in his voice.

I held the box again, felt the weight of it. It was very high-quality, the paper crafted if such a thing were done. He moved over to my side until we were almost touching, and slid his hand along my arm.

"Go on, Jane," he against my ear, "Undress it."

I tried to calm my breathing, to slow my pulse, but it was no use. I pulled the blood-red ribbon, but as I opened it, I didn't see the box. I saw the pale cream of his skin in the soft yellow light, the taut muscle of his chest and abs. I felt the heat of him and smelled sandalwood. I blinked and looked at the opened box.

The top, lined in white satin said "Mikimoto." Inside, resting in a pool of black velvet, sat the loveliest earrings I had ever seen. They were long fine strands of platinum chain with diamond orchids and fat white pearls, spaced asymmetrically along the chain, so they seemed like ripples on a pond. I gasped.

Before I had a chance to say, "No, it's too much, and don't you hate me anyway? Aren't I the rotten girl that felled your horse?"

He snatched the box from my hand and brushed the hair away from my ear, easing the spike through the hole in my ear. It was a very innocent kind of penetration, the metal moving smoothly through the hole, but it reminded me of a much less innocent one. He held each of my earlobes still with his thumb, tugging a bit, sending those same sparks through me again, until I nearly moaned his name. Then it was done, and I was wearing earrings that definitely cost more than my car.

Mr. Rochester grabbed a hand mirror off the table and held it out in front of us. In the glass, he towered over me. He was imposing and remote in the clean lines of his charcoal suit, his dark curls and blazing ice-blue eyes too intense, nearly feline. I was curled in on myself, mousy and small, wearing an oversized gray sweatshirt and the world's most beautiful earrings.

"Aren't they lovely," he purred, stroking the shell and ridges of my ear before tugging lightly on the long earrings. My breath caught, and there was no way to cover it. He would know. In the mirror, Mr. Rochester's pupils dilated, the black expanding into the blue. He wasn't watching the earrings anymore, his eyes traced my lips.

"Or, Orchids are my favorite," I stammered, unsure of where this was going, another trick from Mr. Rochester the ice prince, or a treat from Mr. Rochester the potential sex God?

"I know," he said, smiling at the mirror.

Adele made an exaggerated sigh of pleasure in the background. Mr. Rochester turned to her immediately, with the ease of a happy father. He was natural with her as he fussed over her present, pretending to play around in the tissue paper. Was Adele his? I wondered. I'm not sure I'm ready to be a step-mother.

As if he read my mind, he said without looking up, "Adele is my favorite niece. She was nice enough to come do a small part on the film Uncle Ben was doing, weren't you little lovey?"

Adele nodded vigorously.

Ah, she was the daughter of his drug-addict sister. Poor Adele, I loved her even more, and I promised myself to not let this be like some bizarre summer camp where we all lose touch at the end of the film. I was going to keep her in my heart, as my own niece too, as the charming young woman I could spoil as though she were family.

Mr. Rochester seemed to be in the best of moods, giving presents and perhaps a glass of Aardberg had made him cheerier than normal, had driven away whatever dark thoughts chased him. The room had the rich, oaky smell of aerialized fine scotch. I felt as though I were seeing a new man, my own private, Mr. Rochester who could smile with ease. A man who wasn't hyper-aware of everyone in any room watching him or pretending not to watch him. Here playing with Adele, his smile reached all the way up to his eyes.

He was genuinely happy, not the happy mask he put on for the cameras and staff all day. His eyes sparkled more than the glittery paper. He was unguarded, boyish and vulnerable in a way I never could have imagined. He interrupted my reverie with that same deep silken voice.

"You're staring, Jane," he said without turning from Adele. "Do you find me handsome?"

I swear every single cell in my brain short-circuited when he said it. He wasn't handsome; no he was a God that I worshipped from afar. I could not even manage to stammer. I froze solid in place, and the panic must have shown on my face.

"Perhaps you would rather Leading Man Nick Pack gave you the earrings?"

He snapped, a nasty edge to the cultured thrill of his voice. "I hear the two of you have grown _close_."

I swallowed, tried to breathe, and swallowed again. Nick? Nick who occasionally sits with me at lunch while I watch Mr. Rochester? Nick, whose open face and wide brown eyes remind me faintly of a particularly friendly milk cow? That Nick?

"No, Mr. Rochester, they're beautiful. I'm, I'm supremely happy with them." My answer seemed to ease some of the steel out of his voice.

"You do look ravishing in them. I like to think of you wearing them." He pulled away from Adele, letting her get up and leave the room to go try on the dress. He stepped close again, and gave one of the earrings a playful twist. It felt amazing, but stung as well. "And only them."

I'm not the shiest person, but he always made me feel out of my league in every way. He was just better, more.

"You're so quiet, serious, and honest, Jane. Your eyes fixed on the carpet. Do they pay you to stare at it so much? Except of course, when you're staring at me, right through me. Even though, you do not find me handsome . . ."

"I'm sorry, that's not what I meant. I was surpised by your gift. Besides, beauty fades, heart and mind remain. Next to that being handsome, being beautiful is inconsequential."

"Beauty inconsequential, ha!" He shouted. "You're in the wrong industry, my dear. Can you imagine? You must be so naïve to even say such a thing out loud. Go on then, what's wrong with me? I have fingers and toes, I have a face like other men; I've even been told my eyes are quite pleasing." He circled me now, shark-like and quick. I froze.

"I said I was sorry."

"You did, and I will make account for it. Is it my forehead?" He said, pulling back the soft black mane and pointing at it. "Because I think I may be getting my first wrinkle." His smile was predatory, and I knew it was part of this dance, this "show the American how rude she is" game.

"No, nothing there. I, I do hear you have a beautiful heart, Mr. Rochester." This froze him in his wild gait as surely as he had stopped my mind functioning earlier.

"Ah, you know about my charities then? You no doubt think me wealthy indeed, and it's easy to forgive a wealthy man his ugliness, isn't it Jane? But, it's true! I do work for The Prince's Trust, donations and mentoring. There are other groups as well, but I'm particularly interested in poor children. Since I was one once. I used to be tender-hearted enough to deliver presents at Christmas myself, but people take advantage of my good nature, Jane. Children sold the toys I gave them because I touched them. The boxes worth so much more because I held them in my hands," he held his long elegant fingers out in front of me.

"A beautiful heart once, maybe. Fame has hardened me, made me impenetrable. Well, maybe not completely impenetrable. Do you think there is hope for me yet? Are you going to 'fix' me, Jane?"

"Fix you?"

"I like the look of you when you're confused," he said, his mood changing again, pupils expanding, in an island of blue. He brushed a knuckle across my lips. "Lips flushed, eyes wide, the spreading pink of a blush on your cheeks, you look as though you've been doing something else entirely." He pulled away from me to stand over near his chair.

"And it keeps your eyes off me."

I couldn't stop myself from looking back up at him then. Mr. Rochester was even larger than I remembered. Tall, lithe, broad-chested with an unconscious strength to his walk and the movement of his hands, but it wasn't just strength, was it? He was so alpha-male, so?

Dominant. The word came to my mind before I fully understood it. He was so, dominant.

"It's nice to have company," Mr. Rochester said. "I seem to enjoy yours at least." He paced and his mood turned again from anger, so that he brooded. When he spoke his voice was gentle, as though he spoke to himself.

"You surprised me out there on that horse. Few things surprise me anymore. I all but forgot about you, other things occupied my mind: Adele, my performance for the film, that stupid Nick. When you fell at my feet, you surprised me again, and so now I must know you. Speak."

I smiled, but it was not a nice smile. I don't much enjoy taking orders. From a lover, maybe, but from a boss, a mercurial, determined to play cat-and-mouse employer who rearranged my life to his liking with a phone call, not so much, even if he was Ben Fucking Rochester.

"What would his highness like me to say?" I said, in my best low-class British accent.

"Your highness? Really Jane, posh-baiting is soooo dull."

"What would you like me to call you, _sir_?" I asked snidely. I knew I shouldn't bait him, but screw it he deserved it. "Master?"

"Master," he purred in his deep, cultured voice as though he rolled the word around his mouth and found he liked the taste of it. "Now that's a name that isn't so tied," he smiled as though making a private joke, "to class."

"No, Master," he said. "Says more than who I am. It says who I am to you."


End file.
